


The Light Behind Your Eyes

by liketinydaggers



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketinydaggers/pseuds/liketinydaggers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard still grapples with the aftermath of his suicide attempt, 10 years ago, as he starts having strange dreams about a man with glowing hazel eyes. When he meets Frank, he realizes that he is the one from his dream, and that he may be connected to failure of his suicide. Gerard is curious to know more, but what he learns about Frank will change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

GERARD  
The dream begins simply enough. A hazy mist settles over the plain, drops of dew kissing the edges of the blades of grass. Before long, the haze parts, rolling in waves away from a single figure that emerges, apparently from thin air. His features are completely indiscernible, the darkness obscuring his face. In fact, the only light seemed to come solely from his eyes, the hazel orbs piercing through the thick darkness. He breathes in slightly, and with his exhale lets out the smallest whisper of a word. My name. 

This is the fourth time that I’ve had this dream. It’s always the same, and I still don’t know what it could mean. After each recurrence, I awake, strands of my hair plastered to my forehead, heart racing. Now I sit up in the dark, catching my breath. I would splash water in my face but the landlord’s cut me off, again. Instead, I light a smoke, staring at the fiery edge until the small circle is burned into my vision, then I bring it to my lips, taking a long drag, slow and deep. It’s freezing in here, the gas must be shut off too. I stub out the cigarette and wrap my duvet around me. After a few more moments of decisive silence, I stand and walk into the kitchen, wrapping the bedding more tightly around me. The heat must’ve been off all night for it to become this frosty in here. I flip the light switch in the kitchen, feeling little surprise when I am not greeted with light. I don’t even bother opening my refrigerator. If the electricity has been off for as long as the gas, the fridge can behold nothing but a gross shock. Instead, I pick up the phone. It takes five rings.  
“Mikey?”  
“Hmm?” I only realize later that surely I’ve awoken him. It’s five AM on a Saturday, after all.   
“Can I come over?”  
A long sigh from the other end twists my heart. “You’re cut off, aren’t you?”  
“How’d you guess?”  
“See you in a bit.” He hangs up abruptly.  
He was rather curt, but I couldn’t blame him. I understand that he goes out of his way to accommodate his failure of an older brother, and by now I’m sure he is used to these sorts of calls, though hardly as early as this. I usually sleep until noon. Being a freelance artist has its benefits, though they hardly outweigh the benefits that a comfortably employed carpenter such as Mikey enjoys. I absentmindedly rub the scar that ran down my arm, tracing the pink puckered flesh with the inside of my thumb. This scar holds such harrowing memories for me. They say that I earned it courtesy of the jagged boulders lining the bottom of Desmond Creek. My memory of that day is dim, and flickering like a small flame, one I fear may soon extinguish. There are two facts I recall most. First, the blinding pain when I tore the flesh of my arm. But, more importantly, my savior. Those close to me made a conclusive decision that I was my own savior, that it was I who brought upon my salvation and I found the strength in myself to drag my own body onto the rocky shelf that lay beside the creek. There was no consultation with me on the facts, thus I had no say in which manner I survived. If I could tell my side straight, I would tell them that somebody rescued me from the bottom of that creek. Perhaps a man, more likely an angel of sorts. If there is any fact at all that could be given is that I was certainly not the one who dragged myself out. Even if I had been capable, I would not have. Because I did not fall into Desmond Creek. I jumped.


	2. Chapter 2

FRANK  
I detest the subway. Many people may say that they do too, and that’s all fine and good, but never could they say it is to the same magnitude as my abhorrence. I don’t mind the noise all that much, the idle chatter and the sharp squeal of the subway train as it pulls into the station a mere annoyance. Nor do I mind the severe lack of hygiene that any sort of public transportation suggests. What makes me avoid them most is the sheer amount of people. I feel like I’m packed as tight as a sardine in the station, even if I happen to be the only one occupying a singular bench in the middle of the platform, which I am currently doing. It is a curious, thing, to find me willingly spending time in such a place, despite my strong hatred for it, but I suppose that I have some sort of sadistic need that draws me to it. Besides the suffocating atmosphere exuded by it, I am also strongly deterred by the smell. I don’t mean the smell of food, dropped by inconsiderate passengers, or the natural smell developed by bums that camp out underneath the stairs. I mean the smell of death, one that is all too familiar to me, unbelievable as it could be. It’s an acrid smell, one of despair and decay, and it wafts off every single being, only multiplying in a place as densely populated as the subway station. In fact, it overpowers any other stench in the station, burning my nostrils. I stand decidedly as the next subway train pulls in, the muffled voice of a conductor proclaiming it western bound. A flood of people swarm to the doors, eagerly waiting for their opening. At last it comes, and they flood the car. I trail the end of the pack, warily making my way forward and bracing myself. At last, I enter the car and almost immediately I feel as if I am on fire. The burning sensation flares intensely in my chest with every brush of a shoulder, every touch a hand, and does not begin to die down until I (miraculously) locate a seat near the back of the subway car. I curl my legs up to my chest in order to avoid any accidental contact and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, finding it wet with the beginnings of painful tears. I sigh deeply. The sting is impossible to get used to, and I doubt that will ever change. I pull my hood over my head, almost fully obscuring my face and rest my head on my knees. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a smell shocks my senses, different from the common stench of death. It smells sweet, sickly sweet like too much cheap perfume. I turn towards it, anxious to know what could cause such a change, and what alights my eyes takes my breath away.


	3. Chapter 3

GERARD  
Every time I take the subway, I am filled with regret at the fact that I can afford little more. If I had a car I would never take the subway, but even the most broken-down beater is out of my price-range. I sit, wedged between an old man with a rattling cough and a small child, swinging her legs and kicking the seat obnoxiously. Sighing, I pull a hand through my ratty hair. A few give me strange looks. I can entertain the idea that they recognize me from ten years ago. After all, the incident aroused quite a bit of publicity, and the city even offered me a medal for my “bravery”, one that I politely declined for obvious reasons. In any case, I toss that idea away, positive that the strange looks are more accredited to my haggard looks, more resembling a street hobo than anything. My clothes are rattier than I thought, the dimly lit rooms of my apartment hiding a few conspicuous tears in my sweatshirt. I haven’t showered much lately, partially as a result of my landlord, and it shows, my hair hanging in strands about my face like a greasy halo. A flash of light teases my peripheral vision and I swivel my head in its direction. I spy somebody staring at me, but he whips his face away the moment my eyes lift toward it. In turn I look away, and don’t look up again, but I can feel his eyes the rest of the ride.  
*******************************  
Mikey lives in what one might call the suburbs. He and his wife, Alicia, maintain a lovely three-bedroom house, though without any children, the other two rooms serve as a guest room and a library. I walk past the neatly groomed lawns, the freshly painted white fences. It doesn’t take long for me to arrive at his house, painted forest green. The front door, a cherry red, is open before I can even ascend the front steps and Mikey stands in the doorway expectantly.  
“Water’s off, huh?” he asks, obviously taking in my grimy appearance.  
“Try everything,” I say with a shrug. It’s happened before and chances are, it will happen again.  
I enter the house, wiping my shoes on their bright blue welcome mat. Past the entrance hall lies the kitchen, and sitting on a barstool at the counter is Alicia. She is flipping through an IKEA catalogue as I walk in, but looks up and smiles at me.  
“Morning, Gerard,” she says cheerfully. “How’s life?”  
“The same,” I reply. She’s know me well enough to understand that “the same” isn’t that great.  
Mikey clears his throat from behind me, and I turn to find him holding a set of red towels, which he holds out to me. I take the hint and take them gratefully, traipsing upstairs to a bathroom I know all-too-well.


	4. Chapter 4

FRANK  
I follow him into a small neighborhood, the typical suburban area, past cookie-cutter houses with flawless xeriscaping. Walking past mothers pushing strollers and middle-age men in jogging suits walking teacup dogs, he sticks out like a sore thumb. So would I, I suppose, if I were visible. It takes quite a fair amount of energy to make myself invisible, but I knew this was an especially important occasion. He finally stops in front of one of the houses, painted dark green. I follow him closely and slip in behind him just before his brother shuts the door. His brother. Even now, ten years later, it’s eerie how much I can recall. After stopping to talk to a woman I can only assume to be his brother’s wife, he takes a towel set and heads up the stairs. I tiptoe up the steps after him, thanking god that they are carpeted, and go right after him into the bathroom, nearly getting caught by the closing door. I sit on the toilet cross-legged and gaze at him. He inspects himself in the mirror, running both hands through his hair and shaking out the grimy strands. He looks about the same as he did ten years ago, besides his hair. which is longer and now jet-black. After just a few more moments he lets out a long sigh. Before I can react, he pulls his sweatshirt over his head, taking his thin t-shirt with it and revealing his bare chest. He is deathly pale and rather thin, but even still I can’t stop my heart from quickening. As he continues to undress I pull my eyes away from him but they inexorably drift back when I hear the sound of his jeans zipper. It isn’t until his fingertips are gripping the white waistband of his checkered boxers that I pull my eyes away, choosing instead to stare at a small cut in the center of my palm. I don't lift my gaze again until I hear the sharp scrape of the shower hooks indicating the closing of the curtain before I look up. Behind the pale curtain, all I can see is his dim silhouette. I sit for many moments as the bathroom grows hotter and the mirror begins to steam over. I shift uncomfortably on the hard porcelain and clear my throat, a nervous habit. I immediately regret it. Sharp squeaks indicate the turning of poorly oiled shower knobs as the water dies down and soon stops.   
"Hello?" he calls out, his voice giving off the most infinitesimal hint of fear.   
I choose to remain silent, frozen in my cross-legged position on the toilet. He pulls the curtain open slightly, peering past the pale fabric.   
"Hey!" he cries out in alarm as his eyes fall upon me.   
With this cry I gather my wits, and stand quickly, attempting to make my escape before any further damage can occur. As I rise to my feet, my vision goes black, legs shaking and unsteady beneath me. Suddenly I am falling backwards onto the toilet, and my head smacks against the tank. All I can do is groan and clutch the back of my head. I understood that my powers soaked up my energy but I certainly hadn't realized to what extent.   
"Oh my goodness, are you okay?" he asks, his tone melting from alarmed to concerned.   
He grabs a towel from the hook beside the shower and wraps it around his waist before exiting the shower. Though worry for my health is still painted across his face, I can tell he is still surprised and rather unhappy to discover a stranger waiting in the bathroom.   
"Who are you? Are you one of Mikey's friends? Did he let you in?" he begins shooting questions at me in quick succession, but I barely hear them. I'm still stuck on the very first one. 'Who are you?' I find it difficult to suppress my disappointment that he doesn't recognize me. I had thought for sure--but of course it had been awhile and he had only caught a glimpse even then. Even still, the hot feeling of disappointment bubbles up inside of me and I began to feel ill. It was only then that I remember: my hood is still up. He cannot see my face.


	5. Chapter 5

GERARD   
I am surprised, of course, to find a stranger in my brother's bathroom, even more so given the state of my near nudity. But more than surprised, I am curious, prompting the slew of questions that spill forth from my lips as I behold the stranger on the toilet. I've only uttered a few before he grabs the edge of his hood, which had been previously obscuring the majority of his face, and yanks it backwards in one smooth motion. In that moment, all of my questioning stops.   
"I know you," I say, almost in a whisper. I can feel my eyes widen in recognition, but though I fumble for a name or even a place to fit the boy in front of me, none come to my rescue. His hair is black, cut jaggedly and messy, clearly not having been tended to in many months. His round face practically glows, yet his cheeks are marred with bruises, black and purple, and a jagged cut above his ear weeps blood. But what startles me into recognition the most are his eyes. Large and bright, a light hazel color, I feel them piercing me with a magnitude I have never felt. Except in dreams.   
"It's you! You're the one from my dream!" my outburst may have been the slightest bit unprecedented, but I can't help the excitement I feel when my flicker of recognition bursts into a flame.   
"Your--your dream?" he doesn't show alarm, but slight confusion.   
"Um, yeah," I reply, feeling my face flush in embarrassment. I'd only just met this boy and I was already weirding him out. Desperate to change the subject, I point to the cut on the side of his face.   
"You're bleeding."  
"Damn." He grabs a handful of toilet paper, balls it up and blots at the cut. I can't help noticing his hands are riddled with bruises and scars to match his face.   
"Who are you?" I repeat my question. understand now where I've seen him, but I can't help wonder why.   
"You really don't remember, do you?" There is a sort of painful sadness etched across his face, one that makes me wish with all my heart that I could remember, if only to wash away his sorrow.   
"I'm sorry, I-"  
A sharp knock interrupts me, accompanied by Mikey's voice.  
"Gerard? Everything alright in there? I heard voices." His voice is thick with suspicion.   
"Oh I was just singing," I lie quickly. It's a horrible lie, one that Mikey is sure to see right through, because only happy people song in the shower. I haven't been happy for many years. Even still, I hear his footsteps retreat from the doorway, the sound growing dimmer as he walks back down the stairs.   
When I am sure he is gone, I turn to my unexpected visitor again.   
"Come quickly," I say, hoping to lead him off into the guest bedroom where we can speak privately. When he remains motionless I groan, adjust my towel, and grip his hand to pull him out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

FRANK  
I am no stranger to pain. I feel it constantly in my chest, a hole left by my soul that feels as if it could swallow me. And the pain only intensifies at the singular touch of a human. I've known death, but more painful than this, I've known love. But nothing could compare to what I feel when Gerard grabs my hand. It feels like an explosion, blossoming from his grip and flowing steadily up my arm, soon filling my entire body. The flickering flame in my chest bursts into a roaring fire. I feel as if I am on fire, my aching lungs begging me to scream out in agony. Only barely am I able to hold it in, and I manage to yank my hand away, though the pain subsides only slightly with this action. Gerard turns back towards me, a hurt look flickering behind his eyes. I wish to reassure him that it is nothing personal, but I find that I was unable to let any words pass my lips. Instead, ignoring his surprise at the fat teardrops rolling down my cheeks, I usher him to go forward and follow him into a dimly lit guest room. Immediately I sit down in the king-sized bed in the middle of the room, relief washing over me. As I rest, I can slowly feel the pain recede to the background in the form of the dull ache that I am so familiar with. Gerard still regards me with concern.   
"Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?" he asks eyebrows knit in worry.   
"Just-just don't touch me," I force the words out between gritted teeth. I had assumed that contact with him would be painful, but I only wish I could have been better prepared for the onslaught of agony. I smile weakly to show him that I have sufficiently recovered.   
"Um," he begins cautiously, "do you know why I have dreams about you?"   
"I have a guess," I say, dragging my hands through my tangled hair. I haven't combed it in months, but now I wish I had. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for my explanation, but I decide that his brother's guest bedroom isn't exactly the best place to lay out the whole story.   
"Can we go back to your place?" I ask. "I want to answer all your questions but not-not here."  
"Well," he says, unsure, "maybe not right now."   
I want to press the issue but I can tell he's feeling uncomfortable, as he grabs a strand of his still damp hair and tugs at it. A nervous habit, I recall.   
"Later?"  
He nods slightly, hair still intertwined in his fingers.   
"Just call and I'll come," I say, with a smile. I can only assume that we still maintain that connection, one so strong that it isn't likely to have been severed.   
"H-how?" he asks, slightly bewildered.   
"Call my name. You know it," and with a wink I stand, shove open the window above the bed, and slip through it, leaving him open mouthed behind me.   
It isn't until I reach the sidewalk that I feel a sharp tingle convulse through me and I smile. He remembers.


	7. Chapter 7

GERARD  
The moment he leaves the room, I can feel a spike of recognition on my tongue, and a single syllable pushes itself past my lips.  
"Frank," I whisper before I can stop myself. As soon as his name slips from my mouth I freeze, wondering if that simple whisper is enough to bring him back to my side. I secretly hope it does, but several moments of still silence affirms the opposite. Reluctantly, I go over to the closet in the guest room, not overly surprised to find one of my old hoodies hanging alone in the dark space. I slip it on, forced to wear my old dirty jeans again. Back into the bathroom I go, pulling a small hand rush through my tangled hair. It's thin and lies flat over my head, but at least it's no longer greasy. With a twinge of regret I realize that I left my toothbrush at the house, so I use my finger and scrub along the front of my teeth vigorously. After I feel at least vaguely presentable, I go down the stairs two at a time, eager to leave. In the kitchen Alicia is up, cooking bacon.  
"Breakfast, Gerard?" she asks pleasantly.  
I reply no reluctantly. There'll be none to eat at my home, but my impatience and curiosity greatly outweighs my hunger. "I have to get going."  
"At least have some coffee!" she cries as I reach the door, causing me to pause. I nearly turn back, but then open the door and step into the brisk chill without another word.  
************************  
Unfortunately, I am subjected to yet another trip on the subway, but my mind is distracted and I am far cleaner, so the ride back is far less bothersome than the ride up was. It isn't long until I've reached my stop. Instead of ascending the stairs to my tiny apartment and laying face down on the bedroom as I sorely wish to do, I gather up my nerve and rap my knuckles against the door marked with a golden 1a. It is a mere moment before the door is opened to reveal a squat man, nearing the age of 50 and balding.  
"Whattaya want?" he slurs, the smell of alcohol wafting from his mouth.  
"I came to pay my bill," I say unsurely.  
He laughs, loud and abrasive, his whole body shaking.  
"Well that's a first," he says between his laughter.  
I wait calmly for him to finish, attributing his intoxication to his rude behavior. I have no reason to make excuses for him though. This is how he always was. At last his peals of laughter recede.   
"One moment," he says, and I note the amusement in his voice. He re-enters his apartment, leaving me to stand awkwardly outside his door. After several moments if shuffling and yelling, both from him and his morbidly obese wife Karin, he returns to the entryway, file in hand.  
"Let's see." He flips through the Manila folder, clucking his tongue as he does so. "Looks like you owe me for all of it." He smirks.  
I hate this son of a bitch. He knows perfectly well that I owe him for all the utilities, just as he knows perfectly well that I can't afford to pay for all of them.  
As if to prove this point he asks me "which one then?" and though I would give anything to spit in his face and pay for them all, I simply cannot.  
Instead, with a resigned sigh, I meekly choose electricity, holding out the handful of crumpled bills that were stashed in my pocket. He grabs them with his grubby hands and chortles.  
"You'll be up and running in an hour or so," he says, then swiftly slams the door in my face. I've hardly reached the bottom of the stairs before the yelling begins again. I reach the third floor, and open my apartment door with the sharp click of my key. As soon as I lay eyes on the dismal place, dark and cold as can be, I retreat and lock the door back up. I need some coffee.


	8. Chapter 8

FRANK  
I know I have to go home, and now is as good a time as any, when all I can do is wait. I opt out of taking the subway again, having experienced plenty of pain for a single day. Instead I hail a taxi cab. When I dictate the address of my destination the driver hesitates.   
"Problem?" I ask innocently.   
"Um, are you sure that's where you're headed, sir? It's the Iero house you know," he says warily.   
This is a question I've been asked far too many times, but with the smallest sigh and a polite smile, I confirm that yes, the Iero house is exactly where I'd like to go. He drives on without another word, but I don't miss the small shudder that goes through his body. Twenty minutes of watching the blurred landscape flit past my window and we arrive at our destination. A large house, the largest in the city lies before us, the entire thing falling to shambles. In several places the roof is caving in, and many of the windows hang open, barely holding on by the rusted hinges. I pay the cab driver who maintains a look of near bewilderment as I hand him the crumpled bills, and exit the taxi, standing perfectly still until the curious cabbie finally pulls away from the curb. Then I walk up the long sidewalk that leads to the front door, avoiding the numerous cracks along the path. The doorknob has long ago departed from the door, and a slight shove sends it wide open. Inside the house it is bright, but only because daylight streams through the numerous windows that line the cream colored walls. Immediately the first thing I do when I enter the house is go over to the couch in the living room and curl up on my side. A small release of dust makes me cough a bit, but it used to be much worse. I feel a sharp poke at my side and twist to grab whatever is afflicting me. My hand finds a picture frame, and I hold it up to look at the photograph. It's of my parents, Frank and Linda, on their wedding anniversary. It was taken nearly eighty years ago, and it's still the happiest that I've ever seen them together. I well up with tears; this happens every time I think about them nowadays. After the accident, they moved away, where to is unsure. They simply could not bear it anymore. That's why the cab driver was befuddled by my wish to come here, and that's why nobody else comes here. The rumors go that this place is haunted, haunted by the spirit of Frank and Linda's dead son. Well that's partially true. I do haunt it, but I'm not dead. At least not anymore.


	9. Chapter 9

GERARD   
Waiting for the electricity to come back on is near torture. I blaze through four cigarettes, draw some half-ass sketches in my sketchbook, and lay on the bed, focusing my vision on a deep crack on the ceiling. But staring off into the distance burns more time than I expect, and more than a few hours pass before I think to check for the electricity. A single flick of a light switch indicates that it has indeed returned, and that gets me going, because I have an important task to attend to. I whip out my laptop from underneath the bed, a gift from my parents. It's old and slow and the only way it runs is if it is plugged into the wall. It takes eons to turn on, but finally it does and I wait for it to connect to my neighbor's wifi. I discovered that they had an open network the day I moved in and, to my delight, they hadn't secured it since. After a while I reach a connection and I go online to a newspaper database, one that I haven't used since high school. I'm surprised I can still remember the name, and even more surprised when the school's general login name and passcode comes easily to mind. Once I've entered, I type 'drunk driving' into the search bar. When I was a junior in high school I was subjected to take a health class where, among other things, we learned about substance abuse and its horrifying remonstrations. For the end of the year project, we had to do a research paper on one of the topics studied that year, and I chose to write about driving under the influence. While my research was mediocre, and I barely pulled off a C on the paper, the few articles I did cite stuck with me. I scroll through the various articles but none of them catch my eye. In the 'refine your search' bar, I limit the search to only show articles pertaining to death and occurring in the last eighty years. This cuts down the results considerably until I am left with only a single page of newspaper articles. Immediately, a single headline catches my eye: 'Car Goes Into Desmond Creek; One Dead'. I'm positive that I used this article on my project, but the date goes back sixty years, so I can't possibly see how it is relevant. Nonetheless I click on the link and a few moments of waiting brings up a antiquated newspaper cover. I remember now that I had only pulled a quote from this article, and that I hardly knew the details of the story. Reading through it again, I find that a man driving under the influence swerved into the other lane, driving against the traffic. A car driving down the lane was forced to swerve out of the way, and in doing so, drove his car straight off of the bridge. It plummeted into the creek, and though the driver and his wife miraculously survived, their eighteen year old son died. His head smashed into the seat in front of him and the internal bleeding and swelling killed him before the ambulance could even reach the scene. The article is rather extensive, discussing many more details of the incident, but at this point I have stopped reading. Instead, my attention is captured by a picture off to the side of the article. The caption tells me that it is a picture of the eighteen year old victim, whose name was never released. This is no matter, because it is a face that I know I will never forget. The eighteen year old is Frank.


	10. Chapter 10

FRANK  
I'm positive that I've only slept for a few moments before a sharp shock pulses through my body, shooting me wide awake. I hope that my energy had been sufficiently returned, because as exhausted as invisibility made me, teleportation, even once, is far worse. But it is the only choice I have. I can sense when somebody calls my name, but where from is something that I can only sense on my subconscious level. And while my conscious cannot access it, my powers can. Before the shock can face away, I transport quickly. It happens in an instant, and my breath is whipped away as I reappear, and I fall to my knees.   
"Ah, just where I like you," a voice says.   
"What do you want Luci?" I say through gritted teeth, not even bothering to look up.   
"You know exactly what I want darlin'," she say seductively, but I'm not having any of it.   
"No tricks now," I say, shakily getting to my feet. "You wouldn't summon me just to flirt."   
A quick glance around tells me that I'm standing on the roof of a building, which makes sense. It's her favorite rendezvous point.   
"You always spoil the fun," she pouts.   
"But you're right. I do have another purpose."   
I don't respond but instead just wait.   
"You met up with loverboy today, huh? What a tasty turn of events," she teases, and I scowl.   
"Okay, first of all, don't call him that. And second of all, what's it to you?"  
"Oh please, I know you've got it bad for him. Shame really." She sticks out her bottom lip.   
"Why did you do that? When he touched me I mean."  
"Do what?" She plays dumb, batting her eyelashes at me.   
"You know what," I growl. "Why did you throw it in the fire?"  
"It was- a deterrent you could say."  
"Deterrent?"   
"I don't want you to get too close."  
"Why?" I demand.   
"It doesn't matter honey. I may not get your body, but I sure as hell get your soul," she chuckles as if she's made a joke.   
At the mention of my soul, I can't help but whimper despite myself.   
"Can--can I see it? Please?" I plead.   
At first it seems like she will say no but then she nods.   
"Since you asked nicely, and have such a pretty face, I'll let you see it. I carry it everywhere."   
She digs around in her coat pocket and I gasp as I feel her fingers brush against it. She withdraws her hand, and between her slender fingers dangles a chain with a tiny charm at the end. At closer inspection, you can see that it is a pair of silver angel wings, but I don't need to come any closer to know this. I take a near imperceptible step forwards, and, as if sensing my presence, the charm lifts and tugs at the chain, pilling against Luci and aiming for my chest.   
"Don't step any closer!" Luci shrieks. "Any closer and the ethereal pull will reconnect you to it. We wouldn't want that now would we?"  
She asks me this as if I were a small child and I scowl. In a flash, she returns it to her pocket.   
"There, now you've seen it. All I ask in return is that you keep your distance from your precious Gerard."  
"And if I don't?" I challenge.   
"Well let's just say your soul is in my hands and I've got far more than fire up my sleeves sweetie."   
She smiles slyly and gives me a little wave. "Later hot stuff."  
A snap of her fingers causes flames to rise suddenly at her feet and engulf her entire body. Within seconds the fire leaves, and her with it. I fall to the ground, exhausted beyond belief. But I guess that's what to be expected when you've just had a meeting with the devil.


End file.
